‘My friend is calling over and I don’t want you embarrassing me by being the total and utter knob that you always are’

There’s no doubting the fact that children can surprise you with the things they come out with – and my daughter is no exception to that rule.

“Stay out of my focking way today,” she goes to me. “My friend is calling over and I don’t want you embarrassing me by being the total and utter knob that you always are.”

She can see the shock in my face.

I’m like, “Friend? Did you definitely say friend?”

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“What,” she goes, “you can’t believe that someone would actually want to be friends with me?”

I'm there, "No, that's not it," even though that actually is it? Honor's never struck me as the type to want friends – this is a girl, remember, who came out of the womb rolling her eyes and sighing wearily. I try not to make too big a deal out of it, though. "I'm proud of you, Honor – that's all I want to say."

“Yeah, puke,” she goes. “I mean it – just leave us alone.”

I’m there, “I will. Can I just ask you, though, what’s this so-called friend’s name?” because I’m still struggling to get my head around it.

“Lindsay,” she goes, grabbing a can of Diet Coke from the fridge. “Not that it’s any of your business. Your job is to open the door and keep your mouth shut – do you understand me?”

I nod, then up the stairs she stomps.

Fifteen minutes later, the doorbell rings. It’s turning out to be a day of surprises, because when I open the door, Lindsay ends up being, not a little girl, as I expected, but a little boy – seven or eight years of age; blond, pudding bowl haircut; and wearing, funniest of all, a black, turtleneck sweater.

Over his shoulder, sitting in a red Audi TT, is what I presume is his old dear – blonde, mid-30s, not exactly a looker but definitely worth the detour, as they say in all the travel guides.

I give her one of my famous winks and she smiles at me in, like, a sad way, then she does a quick wheel spin on the gravel and she’s suddenly gone.

I’m about to say something to Lindsay – I’d definitely see myself as being one of those cool dads – except I don’t get the chance to even open my mouth.

“Yeah,” the kid goes, “when you’re finished perving over my mother, is there any chance you might let me in?” and he steps past me into the hallway.

I'm like, "Er, yeah, no, I'm Ross, by the way. I'm the famous old man that Honor has probably mentioned to you."

He goes, “Yes, I recognised you from her description – especially the big, dumb face. None of which is relevant to me. Make me a coffee.”

That wheel spin suddenly makes all the sense in the world.

I’m like, “A coffee? Should you be drinking coffee at, what, seven years of age?”

He goes, “Okay, I’m getting really bored with you now. I’m going upstairs to see Honor. By the way, if it’s Nespresso – which it better be – make it a long Ristretto. And use two capsules.”

Then up the stairs he goes.

I tip down to the kitchen, to be honest, in a bit of a daze and I stort making the kid his coffee. At the same time, I'm thinking to myself, when did children stort talking to adults like that, like we're all idiots? Okay, I am an idiot – you could definitely make that argument – but I wouldn't have got away with speaking to my old man in that way.

I make the coffee anyway, then I bring it upstairs, determined to put this kid back in his box. The two of them are sitting over Honor’s laptop, giggling away to themselves. I put the coffee down and I go, “So what are you two doing?”

They do say that you should always know what your kids are up to when they’re on the internet.

“None of your bee’s wax,” Honor goes.

And I'm like, "Actually, it is my bee's wax? I'm an adult, which means I'm technically in charge here. Of course, if you don't want to tell me, I can always ring Lindsay's old dear and tell her the play date's over."

I love the way my voice sounds when I’m being tough.

Honor sighs and throws her eyes skyward. “We’re trolling celebrities on Twitter,” she goes.

I’m there, “See? That’s all you had to say. Good manners cost nothing. What kind of stuff are you hitting them with? Give me a few examples.”

Lindsay goes, "We told Taylor Swift that she can't sing, Niall Horan that he's a bogger who got lucky and Katy Perry that she's a total mutt without make-up."

"Seriously," Honor goes, "what did we do before Twitter? As in, how did we get at these people?"

I'm there, "I'm not sure we even did, Honor," loving the feeling of actually connecting with my daughter for once? "A lot of these people got away with murder."

“So you’ve done the whole responsible parent thing,” Lindsay goes. “Now can you get the fock out and leave us alone?”

There's things I could say, except I don't? I just go, "Okay, your coffee's there – two shots, like you ordered," and then I back out of the room, like the big coward that I never was on the rugby field.

Just as I get to the bottom of the stairs, Sorcha walks through the door. She’s been putting in long days – five, six hours sometimes – on New Republic’s #FreshStort campaign, which is why I’ve been picking up a lot of the slack at home.

I’m there, “You never told me that Honor had a play date arranged.”

Sorcha puts her hand to her mouth and goes, “Oh my God, I totally forgot! I should have been here! Ross, am I becoming one of those politicians who’s too busy imagining a perfect world to know what’s going on in her own home?”

“Don’t worry,” I go, “it’s all in hand. They’re upstairs trolling celebrities on Twitter.”

She’s there, “Thank God I have you, Ross! Isn’t it amazing, by the way – Honor having an actual friend?”

“I don’t know about that. Have you even met this kid?”

"Of course I have! I was actually in UCD with his mum. She did Business with Languages. He's so lovely."

My wife is a terrible judge when it comes to the opposite sex. Look who she married.

I’m there, “Yeah, no, lovely isn’t the word I’d use.”

She goes, “I just think it’s so lovely that she’s found someone she has something in common with.”

And as she says it, I hear his voice coming down the stairs, going, “Hey, whatever you call yourself – you think I don’t the difference between a Ristretto and a Decaffeinato Lungo? Make me a fresh one. Now.”